Which she did, vanishing like a flash of sunlight in the dusky corridor.
I dropped one hand on the newel-post quite unbalanced by a complexity of emotions which no experience in life had so far taught me to analyze and catalogue.
"It's probably love," said I to myself, calmly enough. "And what the devil am I to do about it?"
There was no answer. Reason, instinct, emotion, appeared to be paralyzed.
So I climbed the stairs in a blind, mechanical sort of way, and went into Smith's room.
"Were you ever in love?" I asked wearily.
He laid aside his novel, unhooked the pipe from his mouth, and considered me very gravely.
"Yes," he said, "I've been in love."
"What did you do about it?"
"The wrong thing, I fancy."